


In the Key of F Sharp Minor

by torakowalski



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Multi, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:41:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Priest doesn’t make a lot of noise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Key of F Sharp Minor

**Author's Note:**

> For a [lc2l](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lc2l).

The Priest doesn’t make a lot of noise. 

Even after he’s lived with them for months and has stopped looking at Ragnar, at Lagertha, at Björn like he expects them to put a knife to his throat, he still speaks softly and seriously. Not for him, the boisterous, unnecessary noises that Ragnar has lived amongst all his life.

Ragnar gets used to that. There’s a strange delight in not quite knowing where Athelstan is, in turning a corner and finding him there, engaged in some worthwhile pursuit which must obviously be fascinating to Christians but looks deathly dull to Ragnar.

Except, one day the spring arrives and with it comes birdcalls and budding flowers and singing. The singing is unexpected.

“Do you hear that?” Ragnar asks Lagertha, looking up from the table. He’s supposed to be studying maps, organising their next raid, but the sun is shining and he would much rather be outside.

Lagertha cocks her head then smiles slowly. “I do.”

“Do you know who it is?” It’s a song Ragnar has never heard, sung in a voice he has never heard.

Lagertha’s smile gets wider. “I do.”

Really, Ragnar married a most infuriating woman. He stands up and stalks over to the window, prepared to fling it open and see for himself. Lagertha’s hand on his arm stops him before he can.

“If you do that, you will frighten him away,” she scolds. She wraps her arm around Ragnar’s neck and pulls him toward the door, leading him outside and around the side of their home. She puts the same care and precision into her steps that she uses when they are on a raid and Ragnar instinctively mimics her.

“Quiet,” she breathes into his ear, as they reach the corner of the house, “do not startle him.”

Ragnar steps forward silently, remaining within shadow so he can look out across their yard without being immediately seen. Athelstan is on his knees at the uneven line where melting snow meets fledgling grass. He’s tending to the tiny buds that are just beginning to show there, brushing snow from their petals and he is singing.

Now that Ragnar is closer, he can hear that the song is in Latin, which is another language that Athelstan sometimes speaks, one that appears to exist solely to allow him to talk to his god. Ragnar finds that strange, but then he finds much of Athelstan strange.

Strangest of all, at least in this moment, is that he can sing like this, rich and clear and haunting and that Ragnar had no idea. The spring sun touches Athelstan’s cheeks and the bridge of his noise, his fingers are already red from the cold of the snow but he keeps working and he keeps singing.

Lagertha steps up behind Ragnar and puts her chin on the back of his shoulder. “That song is beautiful,” she says quietly.

“Our Priest is beautiful,” Ragnar counters automatically.

Lagertha laughs and kisses him below the ear. “I dare you to go over there and tell him that.”

Ragnar is not one to turn down a dare. But with Athelstan, more caution and less haste is increasingly his watchword. 

“Once the song has finished,” he says and feels Lagertha’s arms slide around his waist from behind as they settle down to wait.


End file.
